Storymania - All Over The Page by Kevin M Pasquale

All Over The Page
Kevin M Pasquale

My name is David Grimes, and I'm a very indecisive individual.
Whether it's a matter of what I'll eat for dinner, what pair of shoes I'd like to buy, what coat I'll buy for the frigid, sometimes brutal winters in Mentor, Ohio, I am, as my brother, Darren, would say, "all over the page."
"All over the page" is putting it lightly.
Today, or rather, this morning, I'm standing in the organic food section of my local supermarket, intensely surveying the variety of natural-tortilla chips that boasted of their "organically-grown" ingredients, and their health-conscious properties. This is very infuriating, as they all seem the same. Should I choose the bag with the "white corn" chips, or the bag with the "blue corn" chips? Ahh, now the familiar dull throbbing of a tension migraine headache begins to seep into the region right between my eyes, bringing with it a flash of images, ugly images, images that are causing me to wince, and pinch the bridge of my nose, seeking some kind of relief. Not gonna happen.
"Shit.." I mutter under my breath, placing the blue chip bag in my cart. Now, time to choose some salsa. But what kind? Here we go again...

I don't like the way people often stare at me. To put it more precisely, what is with people? Why is it that people, most often men, seem to have to prove something by having a staring contest with me, when approaching, or walking toward me, in the supermarket? Here I am, pushing my cart, minding my own business, looking in the natural food section, (a sucky natural food selection at that), and someone brushes into me as they waddle by. I say waddle, because the guy is a whale. He's wearing big ol' grey sweatpants, and a wheat-colored Carhartt coat, size XXL, at least, and a ball cap with the infamous "8" on it, paying homage to Dale Earnhardt. And, as you might imagine, he's got a mustache and goatee. Hard ass. That's the consummate tough-guy look. Someone who is either big and bulky, or big and just plain fat, who has little or no self-esteem, so what does he do? He overcompensates, by playing himself off as a hard ass. He grows a goatee, to give himself the rough, rugged look. The look that will strike fear into other men, so that he is protected. His massive body provides protection for himself, protection from others, but he still cannot escape his feelings of utter contempt for himself, so he projects this tough guy image to the world, to somehow make himself feel better, amidst his life of gluttony, of poverty, of laziness that permeates his every friggin' fiber---ok, relax, Dave.
So, anyway, Big Guy with the number 8 hat waddles into me, making no attempt to work his way around me, because of his massive obesity. Man, this makes me mad. I mutter under my breath, "watch it, tough guy", so that he turns around and eyeballs me. I look away. No need to start a fight here in the organic section. Take a deep breath. There, that helps.

So, I have the chips, I have the salsa (which I probably won't like), and my Oust air-freshener, and I have a long way to go. Here's the deal. I am an out of work sales guy. I have had many years of so-so sales results, and have made modest amounts of money. I have sold everything from printers and copiers, to cars, to steaks, to most recently, Internet Technology consultants. And, recently, things have kind-of-been going down hill for me. You see, the company I sold for is a staffing company. "We" placed high-level i.t. professionals on long-term consulting projects with companies throughout Northeast Ohio. But, alas, my tenure of six months with "ABC Co." came to an end, due to an altercation I had with one of our consultants. The aforementioned geek was a bit too big for his britches, and wanted more money than my client, or we, would pay, for his services. It was a friggin' 6-month project, and we were going to pay him ninety-five dollars an hour! Not enough. When I told him that he was a bit greedy, and asking for more money than he was worth to us, this elicited some verbiage from him that I would rather not repeat. After he said something about me making less than half of what he earns any given year, this provoked me to unleash my hard-ass fury on him, right there in our air-conditioned, cozy little office. Jenny Goodman, cute little Jenny Goodman, was the first witness to my "explosion", which culminated in my calling the guy a "sissy-ass", and some other stuff. Seriously, I forget alot of what I said, or screamed. One of the guys in the office, Mark--cool, confident, Mark (I think Jenny was banging him), said later that my eyes were bugging out of my head, and I called the guy a "know-it-all jackoff" before hanging up. Well, that was enough to scare the hell out of Jenny, and about ten other people that witnessed my outburst. I was escorted out of the building, and, later on, was denied my claim for unemployment "benefits". Not a big surprise...

That was four months go, and I'm tired of interviewing for sales jobs. Sick and tired of it. I have to sit in front of Mary Joe Corporate, or Jack "All Star" Sales manager, and kiss their butt, and tell them what they want to hear. Tell them of the significant success I have achieved in business-to-business sales, how I have consistently surpassed my sales quotas, how I have skillfully mastered the art of getting in front of the decision-maker of any company, and earned their business. My head hurts just thinking about it. The last interview I had, with some guy, a sales manager, named "Joel", a slick, handsome guy, with a sharp, precisely-knotted tie, and perfectly-gelled hair, was the final straw. After grilling me for an hour about my past successes (or so I made him believe), and asking me what I would do in this or that situation, what was my biggest sales "success" story, he then commented on my "job-hopping", which was an area of concern to him. He was right, though, because I've had 5 different sales jobs the past 3 years. I guess that qualifies as being "jumpy", as Joel also put it. Anyway, after I asked him why he was "concerned", he flashed an arrogant smile, looked down at his gleaming gold watch, and looked back up at me, only to say, "Come on, David, 5 jobs in the past 2 or 3 years? Wouldn't you agree that that is a good reason for me to be concerned?" The question just hung there, and he stared at me, smiling. But not just smiling. Smiling as if to say, "Come, on, David, you suck! I'm making close to two-hundred g's a year, and you're probably clearing 40 or 50 a year, if that. And you're ten years older than me, which is really pitiful." Still smiling, but his face was slowly turning red. I think I was beginning to make him nervous, due to my staring at him the way I was. My head started to get really hot, and I lost it. Aside from calling him an "f-ing smart-ass", I don't remember too much of what I did after that. I remember lunging at him, knocking him out of his chair, ruffling his perfect hair, and causing his perfectly-knotted tie to go crooked, but that's about it. I spent that night in the local prison, and the food sucked. And, I decided then and there that that was the last time I would go after a corporate job.

So, now I'm moving to the juice aisle. Way too many choices here. I've already been here nearly an hour, so I'll make it quick. Apple juice. Vitamin C. Good for me, enables my body to stave off a cold in this frigid, brutal weather. Bullshit. Can you see? Can you see how cynical I am? My therapist, Dr.. Winthrop, who I stopped seeing about six months ago, has told me over and over about my poor self esteem, and how this has led me to project my inadequacies on to others. I never used to be this way, honestly. There were happy days for me, days where I loved the world, loved my life, loved what potential future lay ahead of me, loved the thought of a happy, prosperous, existence, with a loving wife and family---well, the therapist thing fell through. She was ok, but a bit obnoxious, and pretentious. And, there were times when she would often stare silently at me, without saying anything, as if she were gawking at me. Although I feel that I'm a reasonably good-looking guy, I do have issues with a poor self-image. And, rather than help me with that, she would stare at me, or through me. I didn't need another person judging me, because that's ultimately what she seemed to be doing. She would try to hide behind her grand intellect, and her impressive plaques on her walls, and her comfy couch that she provided me, and her ongoing professional assessment of my "challenges", but this was just a cover-up for her being my ultimate judge. Screw that. I didn't "go off" on her, or lunge at her, like I did Joel The Dick, but I did summon up the balls to call her a "talentless hack", before getting up and leaving her office for the final time. And my head felt hot as I left. And the bitch didn't say a word as I exited her domain. Nothing. Good riddance.

Apple Juice? Check. Teddy Grahams? Check.
The Teddy Grahams are for kids, of course, but I like them. I don't have any kids, thank goodness. Came close, about ten years back or so. When I was with Alicia. Beautiful girl, beautiful body, pretty blond hair. We dated for around three years, before things went awry. Actually, the last year was pretty torrential, and shitty. When she ultimately told me that I was a "headcase", and that she couldn't go on living her life with me anymore, I passed it off as her screwing her boss, Mr. Holman. He owned the insurance company she "secretaried" for, and he was another winner. Old guy, around sixty or so. She always said she didn't like Holman, but she put up with him. I believed her, until things got a bit rocky between us the last year or so we were together. Alicia is an incredibly sweet girl, a girl who is nice to every one. I realize I blew it with her. I had to find a reason that she was tiring of me, of my constant neurosis. So, I came up with the "screwing Old Mr. Holman" hypothesis, which was absurd, to say the least. Alicia truly loved me, for a while. But when I presented my expertly-crafted theory to her that she was screwing her boss, she cried, screamed, and called me a "headcase." Beginning of the end. The restraining order she later filed against me was a bit disappointing, but I never harrassed her after that. Well, only once, when I showed up at her place one ugly winter night, in my hockey mask, my "Jason Vorhees" mask, standing outside her apartment door. All hell broke loose when she saw me. She always came home around the same time on weekdays, at around 6:30pm, and she had a hell of a surprise waiting on her that night. As she approached, I could see that her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and she had her cute blue scarf and hat on, and a bag of groceries in her hand. Well, the grocery bag hit the floor, and she turned and ran the other way, screaming. I was honestly just f-ing with her. I had no bad intentions. We had officially split around three months earlier, and the restraining order was slammed on me just the week before. So, I was f-ing with her, that was it. After her ear-splitting screams lit up the 3rd floor of the building, I got the hell out of there. Not before running into some lady who was not minding her own business, and decided to open her door, and look out in the hallway to see what was going on. Well, I knocked her flat on her ass, (she was in her pajamas, smoking a cigarette, which I think she swallowed), and then got the hell out of there. I "effed" that relationship up, alright. Big time. Alicia was the one girl, the only girl, to ever accept me for the neurotic mess I am. She put up with, for almost three years, my insanity, my constant temper tantrums, my seeing things, my believing the world is an effed up place, with no opportunities, a world full of fake-ass people with dollar signs in their eyes, with overloaded credit cards, houses they couldn't afford, cars they couldn't afford, corporate jobs they actually liked. These same people that shunned me off as a jackass loser, a guy who couldn't meet his quotas, never got to the office on time, had a bad attitude. Whatever, screw her. I'm better off without her.

I'm almost home now. After spending fifteen minutes debating on what bread I'm going to buy (utimately I'm going with wheat. Plain old wheat.), I'm heading for the milk and eggs area. And, there he is. Mr. Wide Load. Number Eight hat, Mr. Construction guy with the goatee. And, damnit, he's looking at me! But this is what pisses me off: he is staring at me with a lazy, very lazy, half-ass gaze, as if to say, "You want some of this, Mr. Blue Chip Guy? Still looking for a job, huh? Got fired again a few months ago, huh? Can't hold a friggin' corporate job? You suck. Why don't you try and sell me some two-by-fours, for my contracting company? You probably couldn't even do that. I'd hang up on your sorry ass. Just call your big brother, and ask him for some more money, he'll carry your dead-ass for a while longer, like he's been doing for the last three months." With that, I call fat ass out. Right there in the milk and egg aisle. "What are you lookin' at?" I say, as my head begins to grow hot. He can't help but hear me, and he stutters for a second. He stops his cart, (loaded with shit), and looks for something to say in response. Here's what comes out, and it isn't overly effective, or tough, for that matter. "What's your friggin' problem?" He looks a bit nervous now, and his hard-ass tough guy facade comes crumbling down, just as I suspected it would. His face is turning red all the while. I'm probably five feet away from him, at the most. There's no one around us in the aisle. Just me and Wide Load. I jab my finger in the air at him, and my head is on fire now. "You're my friggng problem, wide ass. Stop staring at me, and push your cart away from me, before I screw your pathetic world up." I never raise my voice. I speak firmly, with conviction. And Wide Load recognizes the seriousness of my message, because he shakes his head, mutters something very faintly to himself, and waddles away. End of story.

Wow, Dave, get a grip. That could have been ugly. But, mark my words, I would have done something entirely regrettable. I'm around six feet tall, one hundred and seventy pounds soaking wet, but when I "rage", when I can't stand the disgust I hold for myself, and the person in front of me at the time, I will inflict my wrath with the strength of ten men, and I have done it before. Not many times, and I have never done serious time, but, shit, I have raged. And, Dr. Winthrop tried to work with me on this, but her words of wisdom never did diddly-squat for me. Hell, if she had grown up with half the crap that I grew up with, she would be raging too. Ten-fold. But, ruminating on the horrid things I endured with my dad throughout my childhood years only serves to turn up my angst. Dr. Winthrop would often tell me to let that part of my life go, to move on to my future. She advised me to stop condemning my dad for what he did (where do I begin?), and worry about the things I can control. Which, at the end of the day, is nothing, nada. Let's leave it at this: I discovered my immense power, my rage, with my dear old dad. He, too, liked to judge me, and make himself feel better by shitting all over me. For the first fifteen years of my life. How could such a pathetic man, with such obvious little regard he held for himself, have such a powerful effect on me? So, that came to an end one bright summer's day, when I was sixteen. I wanted to borrow his car, a brown Chevy Pinto. He was sober that morning, for once, and he sat back on his dingy old couch, our dingy old couch, with his sweat-stained t-shirt, and smiled at me. "You can borrow my car on one condition. Are you listening to me, jag-off? You can borrow my car IF, and only if, you do whatever I ask you to do today. Anything I ask. If you fulfill this mission, you can have the car tonight." His breath smelled like crap that morning, I can still smell it, but I actually almost felt good for a second, upon hearing his typically derisive statement to me. Well, after I spent the next ten hours or so doing everything he asked, which was topped off by my having to chant over and over to him, "My name is David, and I'm a worthless jag-off" while he laughed and gulped his forty-ounce Malt liquor, it was time to ask for the keys to his piece-of-shit Pinto. It was then that my rage appeared for the first time, in all of it's mighty glory. After I asked him once, at 7pm, if I could have the car, he yelled out at me, with his malt liquor-shit breath, "ASK ME PROPERLY, YOU COWARDLY FUCK!" With this, he threw the big, heavy bottle at me, with some of the beer's backwash splashing on my face as it sailed past my head. My head started burning, everywhere. The rage was mounting. I asked in a measured tone, "Can I borrow the car?" This brought a sloppy half-smile. "Fuck you, you're not getting the car." And he started to stumble away, toward the kitchen. His ass never made it that far.I was on him like a panther on it's prey, and he never had a chance. In the end, I nearly killed him. I had messed his head up the most, and put out one of his eyes. After reviewing all of the evidence of abuse and neglect that I had endured throught the years, the judge was lenient with me, giving me six months in a correctional institution. Dad is long gone, having died from a heart attack twelve years ago. We never spoke after that eventful night. I tried to get my act together after that, I really did. But now, I have bigger fish to fry...decisions to make...Pepsi, or Coke? Six-pack or case? When will it end...

Thank the good Lord, my visit to our friendly neighborhood supermarket is coming to an end. I can hear some cheesy love song playing over the store speakers, which is making my skin crawl. I am now deliberately not making eye contact with anyone who comes near me or my cart. It's better that way. The pain between my eyes is now worse than before, and I'm doing my best just to get through the checkout line, and into my car, so I can go home, sit on my couch, and bitch about all of the worthless crap on tv. So, I'm headed toward lane number five, where a lady with her little daughter is checking out. Deep breath, Dave. Almost home.

The cashier lady is annoying. She's a bit overweight, big surprise, and she has badly dyed reddish hair. Very cheesy. To top it off, the way she's chomping on her gum is grating on my nerves. Very slow, and lazy. And there's that lazy, eyes-half-closed stare. She is taking her time picking through the coupons the young mother in front of me has given her. There must be fifty of them. Just my luck, getting behind this coupon clipper. And her kid, is whining, asking for M & M's, and her mother is tuning her out. "Mommy!" the kid yells at her mother. This sends a fresh, new bolt of pain through the area behind my eyes. My head is beginning to burn now. Her mother blurts out absent-mindedly, "What, hun?" "I want M & M's!" The kid is screaming at her mother. And her friggin' mom doesn't even notice, or care , for that matter. How the hell does she ignore this inane behavior from the bratty kid? God, help me...deep breath, Dave.

Five minutes later, while I'm trying to distract myself by looking at the National Enquirer, with all of the scandal going on in the world, with all of the beautiful people of the world, and the trivial shit they do that makes the headlines (So and So is pregnant? Who's the Father? is the headline. Who gives a rat's ass? I ask.) Well, mommy and her little brat of a kid are still in line, and there are now three people behind me, with carts loaded up. Feeling my head burning, much warmer now. Fake-Red-Hair Cashier is studying the last coupon intently, with complete disregard for me and my fellow patrons behind me. Red-Hair mumbles dispassionately, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but this coupon is out of date." Her gaze remains lazy and distant. Mommy retorts sweetly, "Really? I thought that I could--" "Shut up and pay for your shit, so I can get the fuck out of here!" I blurt out, with my head ablaze with rage. The pain behind my eyes is too much to handle. Red-Hair's gum drops out of her mouth, and her eyes actually open fully, for the first time. She is in shock. Mommy and her kid are silent, and mommy's face has grown pale. I think I'm far gone now. No going back. Red-Hair's time to speak.
"Excuse me, sir, there is no call for that kind of language--"
"Pay for your shit so I can check out!" my focus is on sweet mommy and her little brat. My head is about to blow off. Red Hair picks up a phone by her register, with her eyes still wide open, and says in the phone, "Security to Aisle 5, SECURITY TO AISLE 5, RIGHT AWAY." This plea roars over the loud speaker, throughout the store. Everyone in the friggin' store now knows that Dave, the "Headcase", is long gone. My rage is now here, and it's time to let it rip.
I start to lose all sense of self, of what the hell I'm doing, but now I'm reaching over the grocery belt, converyor belt, whatever the hell it is, lunging over it, to shut up the fake, Red-Hair hag. Shut her the hell up. Mommy starts to scream, and I hear muffled voices behind me, voices of fear, cowardly fear, voices that had better stay away from my powerful rage. Or I will do something entirely regrettable.
I have managed to grab Red-Hair by her shirt collar with my one arm, but she's doing her damnest to wriggle away from me. And she succeeds. I fall over on her side of the grocery belt as she waddles away. Another waddler. A friggin day-full of waddlers.
I'm up now, my head is aflame, when something hits me. Hard. I'm falling back down. But only for a moment. It's a man, an older man. Maybe fifty years old. I don't know much more than this, can't remember much more than this, but I do know that I throw his weak, pathetic ass off of me, and I will rain down on him. And I do. I proceed to pounce on him, and let myself go. Unabashedly. Now I can let all of my stress go, my unhappiness, my pain, my pathetic excuse for a life, my sad attempts at doing something, anything, that would make my life worth living anymore. I let all of this go. I can feel my rage growing, fueled by a dad who hated me, a mother I never met, an uncle who killed himself when I was eleven. This gives me the strength to do what I feel I have to do, for all of the people who feel that life has cheated them, that they aren't worth a damn. And the old dude who feels what I have to give, his time is up. I know this, I know this as surely as I know that David Michael Grimes is All Over The Page.
They pull me off of him, and he's lifeless. Gone. Shit, all of the cowards around me in the store let me do this to him for seemingly ten minutes. No one did a damn thing to stop me, til it was too late. Figures.
Well, I did it this time.
If only Dr. Winthrop could see me now, in all of my glory.
Who am I kidding, she would just stare at me, through me, and say something like, "David, we need to work on your mismanagement of anger and hostility" or something.
Bitch.